


Make It Good for You

by Caius



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Old Cybertronian, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-MTMTE 13, Spoilers for MTMTE 18, Sticky Sex, face fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caius/pseuds/Caius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their discussion in MTMTE 13, Tailgate has no need to hide what's under his faceplate anymore. Cyclonus takes full advantage. Inspired by this (very NSFW) comic on tumblr: http://nightsong-fanworks.tumblr.com/post/55584942313/ive-had-this-sitting-in-my-drive-over-the-last</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Good for You

"No need to hide that anymore," Cyclonus tells him once they're in private, and the finger on his faceplate is as clear as an order. 

Tailgate obeys. Cyclonus had accepted so much of him--taken so much of him--already, what is one thing more? The faceplate slides aside, and he clings to Cyclonus' chest, leaning up, offering Cyclonus his intake.

Cyclonus takes it slowly. Tailgate finds himself murmuring thanks and appreciation into his touch, as Cyclonus' fingers stroke the cheap metal of his face. As he presses a finger _inside_ , he leans his head back, disengaging his digestive ridges, trying to show Cyclonus he can take all he can give. "Please--" he says in his coarsely accented Old Cybertronian, hoping the vocalizer vibrating over Cyclonus' finger makes up for the crudeness of pronunciation. 

He's willing. He's always willing, for everything Cyclonus wants. The finger barely moves, Cyclonus' face still impassive, and so he says, instead, "Will be good. I your servant will make it so..."

Cyclonus smiles, and he can feel the finger stroking the inside of his throat, the other fingers stroking his chin, the other hand pressing against his back, his aft, holding him close. "'I, Tailgate, will make it good for you'," he corrects, correcting the social position markers as well as Tailgate's poor grammar. 

Tailgate moans, clutching close to Cyclonus' chest to feel his words, just...savoring them...for a moment, before repeating them back: "I, Tailgate--will make it good--for you, -- for Mighty Cyclonus," he adds, the first time he's called Cyclonus that, outside of his fantasies. 

And the finger is gone, the heat against him just as strong but--"I'm sorry," he says, and he can't open his mouth any more than he can close it, but he keeps his head tilted back, willing and waiting. "Sorry."

"I'm only Cyclonus. Never--that." The anger as Cyclonus' voice is terrifying, but Tailgate can't stop wanting him. Wanting to feel his intensity, understand it.

"Never," Tailgate agrees, pressing close in apology, reaching down to Cyclonus' hips, offering but hopefully not _presuming_. "I, Tailgate, apologize. And I, Tailgate, will make it good for you." He improvises as little as possible, this time, focusing on making his accent as perfect as he can with his inferior vocalizer. 

"You will," Cyclonus says, and his assurance send shivers of arousal from Tailgate's intake all the way down to his valve. 

"Please," Tailgate says, wiggling down into Cyclonus' lap, trying to get his intake into position against Cyclonus' crotch; but Cyclonus picks him up instead, and Tailgate squeals in surprise as the hard metal of Cyclonus' jaw is pressed to his soft, shoddy faceplates.

Cyclonus had kissed him before, pressing mouth to faceplate, licking the metal in the manner of high-built mechs that Tailgate never was. This--is different. Without the protection of his faceplate, Cyclonus' teeth dent the soft undermetal as his tongue takes Tailgate's intake as thoroughly as it's ever been taken by a spike. Tailgate shudders and clings and submits and is afraid he's going to overload right there, before Cyclonus can do anything more to him.

Cyclonus growls, his hand digging hard into Tailgate's aft, angling his face so that Cyclonus' tongue can get in deeper, impressing the shape of his mouth into the the soft metal so that his tongue can take that extra mechanomilimeter...and having Cyclonus in him, wanting him, using him, so _deep_ , is enough to make Tailgate shudder in overload.

Tailgate doesn't need to enjoy his partner at all to pleasure him (and he does enjoy it even when his body is exhausted) but he still burns with shame as his overload completes and Cyclonus pulls back to stare at him in a way that makes Tailgate momentarily want to disappear. 

"You like being touched there?" Cyclonus says. His incredulity should be perfectly natural. It's not a hole built for interface, just for processing and filtering low-grade energon--it's just a coincidence that his intake resembles a valve so closely as to be commonly so used--in their time. Tailgate has no idea what modern mechs do.

"When it's you touching me," Tailgate says, almost as much as to say: he's not _that_ kind of disposal unit. He lifts his intake defiantly, taking hold of Cyclonus' face and tugging his mouth back down to Tailgate's intake.

Cyclonus resists for a moment, and it seems almost as though he's about to protest, but he allows it, and after an astrosecond of being pressed against Tailgate's face, he extends his tongue again. 

This time, it's less like being taken and more like being prepared. Usually Cyclonus' mouth is even drier than Tailgate's intake, but this time his tongue drips with oral lubricants, and he strokes it methodically in and out, coating the surfaces of Tailgate's intake. The taste of the oil, combined with the pressure of the tongue, activates his digestive ridges. Tailgate whimpers in embarrassment as his weak little throat-teeth try to tear apart Cyclonus' strong tongue--a whimper suddenly cut off by Cyclonus' low groan of pleasure. "Please," he says, his poor Old Cybertronian even poorer with his throat trying to devour Cyclonus' tongue, but he hopes Cyclonus appreciates the effort. "I Tailgate will make it good for you--please, Cyclonus, take me--!"

Cyclonus' growl of arousal dissolves for a moment into something that's almost laughter, and the tongue is withdrawn to say, "You mean: --- me." 

Tailgate doesn't understand the word he gives him, it's not the sort of thing anyone said to a mech like him, but he says it back.

Cyclonus says, "Yes," and then something else he doesn't recognize, although this time he might just be distracted by being relocated to Cyclonus' berth and placed between those huge powerful legs, right in front of the spike he had agreed to take into his intake. Tailgate wonders when Cyclonus took it out; he didn't remember feeling it earlier, but perhaps he just wasn't tall enough.

Cyclonus does not push his head down. He just sits there, hand on the back of Tailgate's head, staring down at him and waiting. Tailgate scrambles to collect himself--he likes it when Cyclonus moves him, but it confuses his orientation processor. Despite the slickness and full extension of his spike, Cyclonus does not seem impatient, and sits quietly as Tailgate grips his hips with both hands, maneuvering his intake over the spike and pushing down.

There's not much else he can do. His model doesn't come with a tongue, and he has limited control of his digestive ridges. All he can do is push down until he can't push anymore, then shift his neck to get Cyclonus at an angle where he can take more. He can't take all of him, not like this, not without Cyclonus applying some of the force...but the spike is warm and thick inside him, its lubricants tasty, stimulating his systems to try to take more. 

His intake wants to break Cyclonus' spike down, consume it, and as Cyclonus' hand tightens on Tailgate's helm, his engine revving beneath him, Tailgate loses control, throat-teeth releasing fully, grinding against the hard spike metal, and Tailgate only has a moment of humiliation at his lack of control before Cyclonus' moan, the hand on his head and the sudden thrust of his spike convince him otherwise.

Tailgate is helpless, his whole body lifted so that Cyclonus can take him almost all the way down to his fuel-tank, and until Cyclonus, Tailgate never wanted this, wanted to be something more than some noblemech's disposal unit, but the spike is thick and delicious in his intake, Cyclonus' hands hot on his body, his spike lubricating copiously as it grinds against Tailgate's digestive ridges. 

The stimulation is too much, and as Cyclonus' hand shifts, one long finger sliding between Tailgate's legs, Tailgate overloads _again_ , sparking and convulsing helplessly in Cyclonus hands, and it's too much, this was supposed to be for Cyclonus, it was supposed to be, he gasps, "Make it good for you, Cyclonus..." his accent even worse than usual, but it seems to be enough. 

Cyclonus says some Old Cybertronian words Tailgate doesn't know, but the vibrations feel good, all the way down in Cyclonus' spike and hands, and Tailgate's face is pressed tightly against Cyclonus' crotch-plates, griped hard enough to dent, as his intake burns with Cyclonus' overload. 

An overload in your intake is supposed to be excruciatingly painful, but the excess energy pushes Tailgate into yet another overload, vocalizer moaning Cyclonus' name as he crackles with both mechs' excess charge, then goes limp in Cyclonus' hands. 

It does hurt as Cyclonus pulls out, spike scraping against burnt-out nodes, friction in places that were not supposed to feel anything so _hard_. He thinks that it might be a long time after this before he can take solid fuel again, Cyclonus' spike has ground him down so badly. He wonders if it'll be as good for Cyclonus a second time.

And then the spike is out, and Tailgate whimpers with pain, curling around himself as best he can, still in Cyclonus' grip. 

Cyclonus doesn't notice yet. He's saying something unintelligible in Old Cybertronian again, and then Tailgate catches the words, "You were good," and it doesn't hurt quite as much.

"You were good too," Tailgate says, through the pain, which Cyclonus finally notices. He's lifted up to look Cyclonus in the faceplates. 

"Oh," Cyclonus says, casually wrapping Tailgate in his arm, carrying him across the room to the storage compartment and taking out a cube of coolant. "Drink. Slowly." He puts it in Tailgate's hands, watching him as he puts it to his own mouth, only spilling a little.

The coolant feels so good on his throat that Cyclonus growls in frustration and a strong hand takes hold of the cube, tipping it back, keeping Tailgate from drinking it too fast. Cyclonus' care for him is as soothing as the coolant itself, and Tailgate leaves the cube there for an astrosecond after it empties, hoping Cyclonus will keep holding him.

"No more," Cyclonus says, dispersing the empty cube, and Tailgate's tanks are full enough with lubricant and coolant not to dispute him.

Tailgate nods, and leans exhaustedly against Cyclonus' chest. Three overloads in a row would be draining even without being used roughly by Cyclonus.

He doesn't complain, though, when Cyclonus lifts him up, holding his head in place to gently press his mouth to Tailgate's intake, stroking the rim with his tongue one final time. Cyclonus hesitates. "You would be...distressed, if I put you in your own berth, after this," he says.

Tailgate wraps his arms around Cyclonus' neck. "It hurts less when you hold me," he says, hopefully.

Cyclonus sighs, and takes them both back to Cyclonus' berth, keeping one arm around Tailgate as he lies down. "More coolant after you recharge," he says, and Tailgate wonders for a moment, why Cyclonus knows so much about sore intakes, but he is too exhausted to think about whether to ask.

"Cyclonus so good," he says, knowing his Old Cybertronian is terrible, but not caring.


End file.
